Month of the Dragon is racing right along, and we have arrived at a favorite time of mine, Tell-a-Dragon-Tale Week. It is a time to gather in the mead hall and spin the most fantastic yarns of draconic daring-do. To talk of Dragon books and stories.

This year, prodded gently by my friend Karen Sanderson, I’m kicking off the week with a classic piece of Dragon lore: the tale of Y Ddraig Goch, the Red Dragon of Wales.

There are many stories about this noble creature, though one of the earliest is found in the Mabinogion. In the story of good King Lludd

and his brother, Llefelys. It seems that long ago, Britain was cursed by three plagues, the second of which is to our tale.

Every May Day a terrible scream was heard across the land, from Anglesey to Land’s End, from Dubrae to Caledonia. Worse than a thousand Ban síde, the scream made grown men weep and all manner of creatures, two-legged and four, to go barren. Lludd was at a loss, but his brother, who was wise in the way of the mystical knew at once what to do.

“Dragons! The land is plagued with Dragons.” One very old (the Red Dragon of the Celts) and one a newcomer (the would-be usurping White Dragon of the Saxons and Angles). They were engaged in a terrible battle and it was their terrible screams that cut through the night.The only thing to do was to capture the Dragons and confine them underground at the heart of the land.

Now, to capture two warring Dragons is no easy task, but, with the help of vast quantities of mead (Dragons do love their mead), King Lludd and Prince Llefelys were able to bind the Dragons and bury them deep underground on the southern verge of Snowdonia in Cymru. The mound that kept them contained is Dinas Emrys.

What images this conjures up! Daenerys Targaryen chaining Viserion and Rhaegal in a dungeon under Meereen [Mother of Dragons lost major cred with that move; than goodness Tyrion was wise enough to set them free.]

Then again, was it perhaps an ancient precursor of Yucca Mountain,where lethal forces beyond our control were going to be entombed until – in theory – no longer dangerous? But I digress…

Years later, King Vortigern, a first-class tyrant if ever there was one, wanted to build a castle atop Dinas Emrys. Everytime his builders tried to set the foundation, the earth trembled so violently the stones turn to rubble. His court “magicians” told him to sacrifice a child “born without a father” and sprinkle his blood on the hill. This would stop the tremors and bring him great good fortune, to boot.

So Vortigern searched far and wide until he found such a msyterious child.

The next day the king, his wise men, his soldiers and retinue, his artificers, carpenters, and stonemasons, assembled for the ceremony of putting the boy to death.

Then the boy said to the king, “Why have your servants brought me hither?”

“That you may be put to death,” replied the king, “and that the ground on which my citadel is to stand may be sprinkled with your blood, without which I shall be unable to build it.”

“Who,” said the boy, “instructed you to do this?”

“My wise men,” replied the king.

“Order them hither,” returned the boy.

This being done, he thus questioned the wise men: “By what means was it revealed to you that this citadel could not be built unless the spot were sprinkled with my blood? Speak without disguise, and declare who discovered me to you.”

Then turning to the king, “I will soon,” said he, “unfold to you everything; but I desire to question your wise men and wish them to disclose to you what is hidden underneath this pavement.”

They could not do so and acknowledged their ignorance….

“I,” said the boy, “can discover it to you if the wise men cannot.

And the boy told the king of a great chamber in which two mighty dragons, one red, one white, were engaged in eternal war with each other.

“…the red…is your dragon, but the white…is the dragon of the Saxons, who occupy several provinces and districts of Britain, even almost from sea to sea. At length, however, our people shall rise and drive the Saxon race beyond the sea whence they have come. But do you depart from this place where you are not permitted to erect a citadel, you must seek another spot for laying your foundations.” (Why the Red Dragon Is the Emblem of Wales; W. Jenkyn Thomas)

Red Dragon v. White – Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain

After executing his not-so-wise council, Vortigern took the lad’s advice and built his castle on a neighboring hill. His life spared, the boy grew in fame and power and became know, in time, as Myrddin Emrys, a name later Anglicized as Merlin.

As most of us know, Merlin left Cymru for Cornwall where he offered his considerable services to Uther Pendragon and, later, his son, Arthur, a king who also rode under the banner of the Dragon.

In later years, a much better king than Vortigern, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, the last king of Cymru, constructed a great citadel atop Dinas Emrys. It was perhaps his reverence for the Red Dragon that made it possible for him to build without draconic interference.

As for Merlin’s vision of the Red Dragon defeating the White, the mage was right for a time. Yet, eventually, as Geoffrey of Monmouth recounted, the White Dragon of of Britain – sometimes Anglo-Saxon, sometimes Norman – did overcome and subsume Y Ddraig Goch.

For the Cymry, though, the Red Dragon remains the soaring emblem of the land on flag and crest, watching over them with all his fierceness.

The English, perhaps recalling the strength of Y Ddraig Goch in centuries past, have not always approved. To which Dragons reply, “Tough talons! We’re here, we fierce, get used to it.”

I was having trouble sleeping the other night and got to thinking, well, about a lot of things. But one of them was that, lately, I haven’t been talking much about Dragons here at the Dragonsnest. Opining on editorial dos and don’ts has its place, but I don’t want to let my Dragon loving followers down. In short, it seemed time to return to my draconic roots. That said…

A story!

This is a bit of a tale I wrote last year when, in celebration of the Year of the Dragon, I was talking to numerous grade-school classes in the area. Traditional stories were one thing, but the kids wanted something new.

For those of you who are intimate with the ancient Dragons of the Celtic Isles, this may have a familiar feel to it, but with a twist or two. What can I say, I’m a spinner of tales. It’s what I do.

Enjoy.

A Lost Dragon Found: The Red Dragon of Wales

As everyone knows, Dragons come in a rainbow of colours: green, gold, black, and blue. Their scales sparkle like emeralds and shimmer like embers on the hearth. And when they wish to hide, they can blend into the background like nobody’s business. Get a bunch of Dragonkeepers together and they will each have their own opinion about which shade is the most common or handsome or prized. One thing most people agree on is that one of the rarest—and most famous—Dragons in the world is the Red Dragon of Wales. Or, as the Welsh call him, Y Draig Goch. This noble creature is so famous he even has his profile on the flag of his homeland.

But how did this wonderful creature come into being? Where was he born and how was he tended?

There are many stories about the Red Dragon, about his origins and what he means to the people of Wales. Some include wizards and great kings and fierce battles between nations. Proper Dragon stuff, for sure. However, the tale I like best I heard from an elegant green Dragon from the Enchantments of Anglesey in northern Wales. Her name was Cymcaille, and this is what she told me:

Long, long ago, when Stonehenge still had that new temple smell and London was barely a pit stop for invading Romans, there was a village in Wales in the lush, green valley of the Severn River, a village so small it didn’t have a name. The people who lived there were strong and wise. They fished the river and hunted the woods; they tended their sheep and cattle and fields. They feasted when there was plenty and shared when there was little. And like one big family, everyone, from young child to grey-haired elder, worked hard and played hard when their chores were done.

Now, the clan chief had two children, a daughter, Efa, who was ten, and her eight-year-old brother, Brychan. Every morning these two woke up just looking for trouble. They would hurry through their daily tasks, eager to run off to the woods or down to the river. One day in late summer, with chores done and lessons learned, Efa and Brychan headed out to pick blackberries. The berries were so big and juicy that more went into their stomachs than their basket, and, by late afternoon, they were purple-fingered and full, with nothing to show for their labours. Not wanting to go home empty handed, they walked along the river, hoping to find a fish or two tangled in the nets stretched across the shallows. But the fish were too clever and refused to get caught that day. Just about ready to give up, Efa and Brychan rounded the bend in the river and there, in the last net, saw the strangest thing they’d ever seen: a great round egg, all midnight blue with specks of silver.

“Let’s smash it,” Brychan said grabbing a stick thick as his arm. “I want to see what’s inside!”

“No!” Efa said. She stood between her brother and their find. “No, I have a better idea: we’ll hatch it.”

Brychan thought about it for a moment, then smiled. What a great idea! Besides, his sister was older than him and would squash him in a second if he crossed her. With his big stick, they dug a hole in the sunny side of the bank. Then, working together, they freed the egg from the net, rolled it to the hole, and buried it where it would stay warm and out of harm’s way.

“Especially them. Come on, it’s getting late!” And they ran back to the village, arriving just in time for supper.

Now, Efa didn’t know it then, but she was about to become a Dragon Keeper. Led by common sense and good instincts, she returned to the egg every couple of days—more often when she could. Sometimes Brychan even tagged along. She dug up the egg, tapped it, talked to it, then returned it to its warm, sandy nest.

So the summer passed, day upon day, week upon week, until the sun travelled lower in the sky and a whiff of coming autumn lingered in the air.

“Is it going to hatch soon?” Brychan asked impatiently as they pulled turnips and greens from the garden.

“I don’t know,” Efa said, unable to lie even to her pest of a brother.

“Well, I should have cracked it open—Whack!—long ago. Then we’d know—“

“Absolutely nothing. We’d just have a broken egg. Too big to even scramble!” Brychan laughed then shrugged, returning to a particularly stubborn turnip that wanted to spend another day or two underground.

Though she wouldn’t say so out loud, Efa was as eager as her brother to know what grew inside the star-lit-shell. Something amazing was about to happen, she knew it in her bones. And as soon as she could, she gave her brother the slip and ran off to the check on her treasure. When she neared the river, her heart sank. Through the brambles and honeysuckle, she saw waters churned up and muddy, a great mass of paw prints ripped deep into the bank. My egg! Someone’s after my egg! And without a thought to her own safety, Efa followed the tracks down the river bed, until, under a wind-bent tree, she found a lustrous silver Dragon—a mountain of a Dragon!—sobbing into her paws.

“What’s wrong?” the brave child asked.

“Who are you to ask, tender morsel?” moaned the Dragon.

“I’m Efa. A—a girl. I only want to help.”

“Help? Oh, how can an insignificant scaleless thing like you help me?! I am a wretched Dragon—a Dragon bereft and bewailed. A Dragon beyond help. I am a Dragon who has lost her egg.”

“Was it all blue with specks as silver as your scales?”

The Mother Dragon pricked up her ears and wiped her eyes, drenching Efa in the tears she flicked from her paws. “Yes, that’s it. Where is my egg, what have you done with it? Answer quick or I’ll eat you where you stand!”

“Oh, I’d much rather you didn’t. Really. The thing is, my brother and I found your egg caught in one of our nets. He wanted to—well, that’s not important. I—we—buried it in the sun, not far from here. I’ve taken good care of it, I promise. I’ve turned it and talked to it. Come, I’ll show you where.” And she led the Dragon down around the bend to the sunny side of the river. There, with tears of joy, the Silver Dragon unearthed her egg, wrapped it in the curl of her tail and blew a hot-hot breath upon it.

Then they waited, Dragon and child. And when the sun tipped over the hills, and dusk was fast approaching, the egg began to tremble, to rock, to roll. Then, with a loud crack, it split open, spilling forth a baby, yolk-soaked red Dragon.

Dragon Egg – Anne Stokes

“Oh, he is perfect!” the Dragon said with proper mother’s pride. “You saved him, girl, and I and all the Dragons of Cymru are eternally grateful.” She plucked a scale from near her heart and placed it in the child’s hands. “Keep this until our return,” she said, “a sign of our thanks.” And with that, she scooped the little red Dragon up in her paws and flew off into the western hills.

With a Wow! in her heart and a lump in her throat, Efa watched them disappear over the horizon. Then she plopped down on the bank and stared at the token heavy in her hand. Oh dear, she thought, how ever will I explain this to my brother?

Many years later, when Efa and Brychan had families and children of their own, a great Red Dragon swooped down into the village—the same Red Dragon they’d helped hatch so long ago that it all seemed like a dream.

“I am Y Ddraig Goch,” he roared. Then recognizing the Dragon scale which hung around Efa’s neck, he bowed low. “I am here to thank you for helping me come into this world. I owe you a great debt. You and your people. The Dragons of my Enchantment—my clan—owe you, too. We shall teach you and guard you, till the end of time.”